


let's kiss like real people do

by starrynomin



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Mentioned Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas, Side Ships, Song: Like Real People Do (Hozier), chensung - Freeform, fallen angel??, luren, markhyuck, mentioned dreamies, muse jaemin, sculptor jeno, this is us trying to act smart but we aren't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25876780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrynomin/pseuds/starrynomin
Summary: Where inspiration comes in the form of an ethereal being in Jeno's dreams.
Relationships: Lee Jeno/Na Jaemin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	let's kiss like real people do

**Author's Note:**

> song inspo: like real people do - hozier. jaemin is a creature out of this world. literally.

Jeno had always viewed the night sky as a vast and endless garden. High did the full moon hang from the ill-lit sky, blooming, as luminous petals flickered along like pollen dancing through the genial breeze of spring.

But with the night's naked beauty, it had been deemed impossible to compare it to anything.

Being an art student, however, Jeno had a multitude of views and perspectives. His mind is powered with creativity and had been set to find the beauty in everything. He sees the dark that unfolds before him like a painting too, no frame big or worthy enough to withhold it, and that's exactly why he loves it so. The inky tints and fluorescent hues knew no rules, no cage, nothing could contain it. Free and incorrigible, the life that Jeno longs to have.

The night is not only an untameable artwork, not only a garden of silver stars and a full-blown moon, it was something beyond that. Much, much more than the human mind could ever comprehend. It's never ending, a piece that not anyone could hold or taint, it's a soul with no body that could hold it back. Jeno knows this. And he loves it so.

As he takes another sip from his warm coffee, heat crippling down his throat like growing vines beneath the rising sun, Jeno marvels at the sight above him. He's graced with one of the most enthralling of views, ever grateful for the balcony of his chintzy apartment, allowing him to see the first light of the morning and its last before blue and purple shades envelope the sky.

Jeno holds the mug away from him, his elbows bracing against the rustic rails and he takes his time to take everything in. He's the one to admire art after all. To be never content in watching from afar, but to have it up close where his dazed eyes could see and commend it better. The night sky isn't something he could hold, but he sure hopes he could, to have it in his grasp, beating and alive.

For now, however, he's content like so. Even more so when a shooting star streaks across the pitch dark, going as quick it arrived, yet its trail leaves something warm in Jeno's chest. A soft smile tugs in his lips and with that, he retires for the night.

Jeno's thin white shirt is kept open, its silk flown around him as the wind whispers down his bare chest. His buttons stay unclasped like always, one side of his clothing tucked in his beige and pleated slacks. The softness of his bed welcomes him like two fluffy arms embracing him, cradling his tired body like waves bringing him to paradise.

And to his surprise, the comfort of his bed and the towers of his pillows bring him somewhere even better than paradise. Deep in his slumber, where his long lashes no longer flutter but stay shut, his chest heaving in a steadying pace, his hair against the silk duvets, he's brought to a place he wishes he could stay in forever. It's unclear at first, round blots and inks of vibrant colors are what he sees first.

What follows is a brighter and more vivid scene, his pale skin greeted by a warm breeze, his bare feet kissing the soil below him, where the luscious green grass thrived and reached out to the sun that watched them from above. The sky holds and pushes ships of clouds, hues of yellow and orange that seemed to have found refuge in those puffs of white. Its beams are soft and loving, caressing him like a warm touch of a hand.

Acres of green and every color that exuded the familiar feelings of excitement and joy, giving Jeno a taste of the eye-candy that stood and danced in front of him. Contentment blooms in him like the same way those countless flowers did, the lush grass and the faint crinkling of the leaves. Innumerable crowns of marigold, primroses, hyacinths and gardenias, making known of their presence as this is their kingdom. Low and inviting hills laid out, a meadow that was too enthralling for words to capture its natural beauty.

With how the colors and its pure elegance meshed together, Jeno's hand itched to paint the scene that he's been blessed upon. Truly, no amount of words or poetry could capture even an ounce of its essence, so he resides in what he could do best–art.

He craves the touch and feel of a canvas, its rough texture against his stained skin, the grasp of a brush in between his fingertips. Every stroke, every dip, every tiny detail that he makes, each gave him that bliss. And to be able to witness this, the desire to see it not only in his dreams, but to bring it even when the sun's up and he's forced to face reality again.

But alas, Jeno's stuck in simply admiring it. There's a myriad of creations his hands long to bring forth, to give these imageries a place; however, upon realisation that no shape nor form of constraint could give it justice, he lets the scenery take place in his heart instead. A memory he'll savour till he takes his last stroke of his brush, till his last breath.

He takes a walk down a path and oddly enough, there's a sense of familiarity that overwhelms him. When the sun shines down at him, radiating in the tips of fingers and the valleys of his knuckles, the ground just warm and welcoming enough, there's a surge of safety, the epitome of home.

Every stride he takes is graceful, naked soles of his feet bouncing in an apt manner, as if it were praising the ground it walked upon. He reaches out his hand, deep in his trance. The tall grass grazing against his palm, fingers brushing against the cotton-like texture, cradling him softly, delicately like no other. A touch of heaven and art at the same time.

As a fond smile tugs in his lips, he stops and runs the pad of his thumb against a pink gerbera's petal. Innocence, purity, cheerfulness-to name simply a few of what it symbolises. More particularly, beauty; its head a cluster of tinier flowers, one of Jeno's many favorites, how it shelters another soul, another life within it. Faunas have always been as complicated and intriguing as art, how it's also oblivious to rules and whatnot, truly a beautiful chaos.

And whilst Jeno stood there in the middle of vibrant pastures that seemed to be never ending, he knows that he's more than right, as each plant bloomed and withered on its own unique time.

The crisp air passes through again. It seeps between the thick and thin stems, the viridescent grass and the mead that it's rooted to, mimicking the flow of waves in a perfect beach day.

A starflower gets carried amongst the hasty wind, bringing the white and purpled floret towards him, intricate pearls of yellow blooming from its fragrant core. It reminds him of the shooting star he saw not too long ago, but this time, it moves and twirls like it's taking its time, following the orchestra of the wind. And then it sticks its gracious landing. Down it goes under a large tree, a mighty feat of nature that gave shelter, protecting anyone who rests beneath its crisp and radiant leaves.

It's not the intricate details of the tall tree's barks, the branches that reach heaven-wards, the light that passes through the thin-sheet leaves that create sprightly hues and beams.

As much as Jeno wants to admire each detail of it more, his gaze lands and never tears away from the figure that sat under the shadow, away from the soft rays of the scintillating sun, but had enough light to frame the glowing beauty he emits.

Seated between the dewy grass and the flurry tones of the flowers, a young man was draped in silk robes, his golden skin burnished and gleaming, his brownish hair flowing down to his nape, subtle hints of pink and stardust in those soft, fluffy strands.

His jawline wasn't sharp nor blunt, but the perfect line that shapes his kind and gorgeous features well; down to his pointy nose, pink and button lips, curled gently, lovingly as his glittering eyes set on the petals and stems his long, slender fingers fiddled with. It's as if the word elegance have found a body, nestled in the garland under an oak tree, glowing in the brightest and most beautiful of ways.

With every twinkle in his dark orbs, every fond tug of his pink supple lips, every innocent and curious quirk of his thick brows, Jeno gets even more drawn to him. His throat runs dry at the sight of his bare chest, faint sheen of sweat glittering down the trek and crevice of his muscles, lean and firm in absolute flawlessness.

The silk he wore brushed amongst the breeze, ever so softly, complementing his sun-kissed complexion and the hints of gold littered in his skin. Jeno's teeth sink into his lower lip, the urge to capture and form art strikes in him again, but the longer he stared, the more he realises that one that there is no possible way to create perfection.

Only God could have the power to do so and surely enough, He had been busy. The living proof sat before him, knowing that the almighty Father must've kept the mold when he made him, must've stepped back and applauded Himself for creating something, more so someone, who's better than sunsets and sunrises, than night skies adorned by auroras, for breaking the lines beyond perfection.

No amount of a paintbrush's streak, a pencil's graphite against a measly paper, nor grandiloquent poetry could ever compare to the beauty that Jeno's eyes had set upon. Nothing at all and yet, as the seconds passed, he finds contentment in like so. A man like him should never be up against anything, not even the captivating meadow that he rested on, for he was more than that. Much, much more.

Just as Jeno could bring his feet towards him, the young man perked from sensing his presence. His head raises from the flowers he had been twiddling with, his dark brow shooting upwards in an endearing surprise, and when he sees the star-struck expression on Jeno's face, he smiles.

Jeno wakes up.

The morning sun shines through the thin, ivory curtains. flowing like waves from the balcony's tall frame. One of the doors was cracked open, letting the breeze in and Jeno takes a deep breath in.

From what he had seen moments prior, it had left him speechless, the scenery's brilliant tinctures and lastly, the beautiful stranger in his dreams.

He never leaves Jeno's mind, had somehow found a place in it already despite the lack of formalities and introductions, and to add, the million queries racing in his bleary state.

Who the man was, he doesn't know. And how his unconscious thoughts had come up with someone who could make the gods and goddesses cry in envy from his beauty, that is also something he doesn't know. But answers weren't what he needed now. What he truly needs is a cup or two of coffee, his sketchpad and rows of his finest pencils.

With an indescribable thrill, Jeno jumps out of his bed and scurries towards his unorganised working space.

To be frank, his "work area" is his whole apartment. It's like a jungle to a new-comer's eye, or to anyone who's unlucky enough to set foot in his habitat; from the crumpled papers scattered across his stained marbled floors (all from late night paintings, clumsy sleep walking, midnight cramming), with more buckets of paint and opened sketchpads in every corner of his tiny room, his indoor plants on the verge of death as if a herd had just trampled each glimpse of life except for his, tangled wires that entwine into each other like vines, along with unfinished drawings and a multifarious amount of used and unused art materials.

Pushed against one wall, however, is a table loaded with the necessities that Jeno often uses. His favorite brushes and pencils, his current piece (he'll work on it for a week and then give up), and a ridiculous litter of coffee mugs.

Jeno's eyes widen in delight once he sees a clean page from his journal, almost jumping in glee once he had it in his grasp.

He takes a random pencil and draws almost immediately, his wrist moving in such a concerning yet graceful sequence, each stroke and touch of the lead is messy, not anywhere neat nor perfect, but a clear figure starts to show itself.

The scene plays over his mind over and over again, burned in the back of his lids like an obsolete painting, as a flurry of colors and hues blow up in his racing, thrilling system.

A storm of emotions, motivation, a new level that he's never felt before. It's a good kind of chase, beginning from the beating of his rapid heart down to his fingertips, sparking, as each flick of his wrist brings his dreams to reality.

Jeno tried, but a drawing seemed to be not enough. He had managed to capture the flux of his white silky robes, his well-defined chest and the subtle lines of his cheeks, jaw, even down to the faint lines of his muscles in his arms-it's as if the young man was engraved in his mind already.

There's no absolute way to recreate perfection, he knows that well, but Jeno couldn't resist the desire to attempt the impossible, to bring the prepossessing stranger into reality with him. To feel him against his skin, to have an idea of what heaven must be like, to have a creation that trounces even the rarest alignments of celestial bodies nor every beautiful thing that breathes on the face of earth that he calls home. He wants this place to be his own too, his home.

And that's how Jeno's the 9th day of his summer vacation starts. His last year in college would reign in less than a couple of months, a day he had been waiting for, but all those days of worrying on how he should spend his free time aside from drawing with no imminent inspiration, all of that gets flushed down the drain.

There's a gush of excitement, curiosity, a bit of challenge burning in his eyes as he picks his feet up again from the cold ground. He leaves the finished drawing and his pencil, dragging himself towards the empty supply closet that had began to dust on itself. With his blood rushing through his veins, erratic and ecstatic, he pulls the doors open and brings out the boxes labeled with, "sculpting tools."

In a matter of hours, a blurry whirl of shuffling around his small space that Jeno calls an apartment, the night settles in and he's looking back at the piece he had made.

There in clay, amidst the scattered tools and equipment, wrinkled papers of details that he couldn't get quite right at the first try, is a sculpture of the man in his dreams.

He had began from his face, the body and his clothes still on its way to completion; proves that the road to perfection is no easy path to take. It's impossible, that much Jeno is aware of, but he was taught to never quit, to never be contented unless it's flawless, only the best.

At the back of his mind, he could hear the nagging voices of his friends. Donghyuck would tease him for going as far as sculpting for someone who had visited his dreams; his boyfriend, Mark, would use that soft voice on him after he had scolded him for missing his meals and a much needed shower again. Then, Renjun would most likely applaud him for both his stupidity and dedication. He's an art major too, he understands. Chenle and Jisung were the young ones who never had a liking on art, contented with anything that "looks nice" and pleases their childish tastes. He could hear them throwing compliments, their eyes ogling curiously at his new work, and that makes him stop.

The stranger in his slumber was a masterpiece that ought to be shown off to the world, praised by many, but Jeno finds himself gulping harshly at the idea.

There's a tinge of possessiveness, the greed to keep him to himself, to have him hidden in his arms, away from the stares and hungry gazes of all. He sighs. Shaking his head, Jeno pulls the loose suspenders off his shoulders completely, as he plods towards his bathroom. The water seemed to have done the trick in cooling himself down, droplets trailing down the lines of divots of his body, his dark hair falling down to his hooded gaze.

He steps out, much more refreshed, until he meets eyes with the sculpture again. It had a soft smile on its face, cheeks high and cheery, his hair tousled with immense precision. Surely enough, it isn't alive nor breathing, but that doesn't stop Jeno from blushing red. He had stepped out with merely a towel wrapped around his waist, water pooling around his feet, standing alone in his own apartment and yet he's endearingly embarrassed.

Huffing, Jeno walks past the sculpture and pulls his drawer open. As much as he wants to dress himself in the comforts of his own apartment, he couldn't. He takes lights and quick steps towards the bathroom again, locking it shut, and he heaves a sigh of relief. This is ridiculous he repeats it again and again, wondering what he's so ashamed for.

It's very like him to draw something pretty his eyes had set upon, but very out of character of him to take it as far as sculpting a boy he had seen in his dreams. When he steps out again, he realises everything's too late. Better to finish on what he started than throw it away and have the landlady pest him with too many questions. What could one say to someone after sculpting a pretty boy for the whole day, only to throw it out in the next anyway?

There's the familiar high-pitched and teasing voice of Donghyuck again–"Someone's whipped!" And then Mark would be fighting back the squeaky laugh from his throat, his cheekbones even higher as he airily asks in amusement, "Isn't that a bit creepy?"

Jeno profusely shakes his head again. He throws his blanket over his sculpture, the light of his apartment encasing its silhouette, and still, that dazzling smile of his fails to leave Jeno's mind. Head hung low in humiliation, he cracks his fridge open and prepares an easy dinner for himself. He settles on ramen at the end, a runny egg above it, with a bottle of water on his side.

It's a sad, miserable dinner. At least he's not alone, Jeno ponders as he walks out the balcony again, his gaze shifting towards the statue in the middle of his apartment.

Glowing dusts hover amidst the white blanket, as the light shines down on the silhouette and its contour, its defined frame, its mute colors accompanying the melody of the night. The pale, almost opaque cloth hangs there as if it was taunting him to hold it. Jeno could hear the singing and calling of his name to reach out, to free the stranger beneath it from its constraints, akin to setting a bird free from its bondages. But Jeno looks away again, swallowing the odious desire down his throat.

The rainbow covered socks softly patter against the sullied floors. The colorful sweater hangs loosely from his body, his folded jeans stained with graphite and clay, yet he finds his exhaustion taking over like how the night braces the day. Jeno follows his monotonous routine, after a tiring day of pulling his brains and hands to create art, he falls down to the mattress again. Only this time, he has someone to look forward to in his dreams. He sinks, closes his eyes and drifts off to slumber.

In a blink of an eye, Jeno finds himself in the hazy pigments of his unconscious state again.

The same green and vibrant pastures, the sun shining down his skin just enough, as if a hunger had been quenched. He could've chose to be content with this, the heat that gently prickles against his sallow complexion, but his eyes are swift to look around.

He doesn't let his gaze waiver nor falter, one man only on his mind, craving for a different kind of need. And when he fails to do so, Jeno picks up his pace and turns his head around his surreal surroundings. The notes that nature plays grow louder in his ears, the buzzing of the bees and the hums of the wind, and lastly, to his surprise, the splish-splashing of a river he's never heard before. And like a child to a pied piper, Jeno follows its sound.

The melodious trance brings him to the top of a slope, where its feet owned a shallow stream that flowed through smooth and ash gray rocks, its pebbles glimmering from the clear waters. Like jewels under the beaming sun, they glisten and catch Jeno's attention like a spellbound.

It glides between the fluffy hills, blazing stars and crested irises softly swaying from the breeze and the pearls of water that jumps from the ambient stream. The color it encases is a brilliant mix of white and blue, crystal-like that reflects against the marvelling orbs of Jeno.

But neither the lulling murmur of the water nor its vivid hues are what takes his breath away; instead, it's the familiar young man that stood amongst it. He truly carries himself with a refined grace, just like his silk robes that pool around his ankles, natural and perfect.

There must not be a word in existence that could describe him. And yet Jeno could make up a list, draw a number of portraits and sculpt a bit more to try and ensnare the beauty he emanates. He's captivating, ethereal.

For the second time, the stranger senses an uninvited presence within his person, and he perks up. He instantly tears his gaze away from the butterfly in his hands, diverting his attention towards another man on top of the hill, beaming at him, "You came!"

It's a pleasant sound, his voice. Low, inviting, there's a cheerful lilt as he beams at Jeno with a lovely smile. The sides of his eyes crinkle like no other, lighting up the meadow even more with a simple gesture and with merely a small, excited chuckle from his pretty pink lips. The surge of delight is evident in the way his eyes glint, mimicking the stream beneath him, and Jeno finds his breath hitching again.

The stranger tilts his head, his brown and pinkish hair falling to the side, his orbs lighting up behind those strands as he chimes, "You've never told me your name, pretty boy."

An overwhelming feeling crashes down at him, not like the stream across him but more like tidal waves carrying him, as the realisation that the beautiful man had acknowledged his presence. It's a bliss that lodges in the cavern of his tongue, rendering him to a stammering mess, "It's Jeno."

A small nod is what the stranger responds. His mouth turns round, his curiosity now gone, dispersing along with the water of the quiet stream.

The butterfly from his opened palms flutter away, his gaze following in admiration as he watches its wings move gracefully, its yellow wings contrasting loudly against the bright blue sky and its white clouds. He eyes it with a fond smile, as Jeno tries to ignore the warmth creeping up his cheeks from staring too long again. He tries to break the peaceful silence, voice frail and nervous, "And you?"

The stranger looks at him again, falling into a fit of tiny giggles at the expectant stare thrown at him. He fixates his eyes at the stream below him, casting a mirror in those lustrous glints, as he replies in a hushed whisper, "I go by a lot of names that I'd prefer not to say."

Jeno's teeth sink into his lower lip, still anxious to be with his heavenly presence, "What should I call you then?"

There's a brief pause, one that's filled with a comfortable sense of anticipation. Jeno takes another breath in when he's finally asked in return, "What do you like?"

The radiant smile reappears, pulling Jeno's heartstrings and he himself included into an endless pit called love, and he continues to fall for him, deep and deeper. He knows. He knows the moment he had seen him under that mystical tree, when he smiled at him, when he fixated such kind eyes on him, there was no apparent escape any longer. There's only him and this lovely being, a one-sided attraction, and even so, he's content with it. He'll take whatever he's given.

Growing shy from his fond stare, Jeno turns away. He thinks of the most beautiful name he could muster, one that's fitting on a perfect man like him, but only useless list comes to mind. Names of artists dating back from centuries ago, to their known paintings and works-none deemed fitting, nor worthy enough. Then, amidst the little songs of nature, two names flicker like a bulb above Jeno's head. He blurts it out before he could stop himself, "Jaemin."

The stranger's (or Jaemin's, if he'd agree to the sudden name as Jeno hopes so) pupils dilated in surprise, a subtle quirk in his lips from amusement, "Where'd that come from?"

Jeno blushed as red as a rose, sputtering around his tongue, "No where in particular."

There's not a single chance that he'd say the explanation behind it. How he thought of Jophiel, a Hebrew name that meant "beauty of God." Or how he thought of Damien simultaneously, liking the tone and how it rolled off his tongue when he first read it in a book.

The two names clashed into one another until Jeno's dazed mind taught of submerging them together. In a way, they contrast one another, both biblical but opposing. It's a name that's laudable to him, how he's both divine and sinfully bewitching.

"Jaemin, hm?" he tries it, testing the waters, until a satisfied smile graces across his forbearing features, "I like it. Has a nice ring to it as well."

A swell beats in Jeno's chest, heart skipping in pride, as he feels as if he's floating in air. The praise isn't for him directly and yet, there's a fire that ignites in him, fuelled by the endearing twinkle that follows after Jaemin's words.

When he stands there, he takes the attention of every creation and keeps it in the palm of his hand, just like Jeno's who had been wrapped around his finger since the second their eyes met. He melts all his worries away, the complexity of everything in this world, and lets those drift n the stream he stood in, far away, until all he could focus on is him.

The moment Jeno tried to close their distance with a light step, he's ripped apart from his dreams again. What resounds and jolts him awake is a crash from outside, preceded by a hiss of a fire hydrant erupting, its water immediately flooding the otherwise quiet street in front of Jeno's apartment. He heaves a sigh at that.

This part of town wasn't as prone to accidents as the other, somehow calm and tranquil, the neighbours kind and generous enough to give him food and holiday cards at times. So when Jeno hears a crowd starting to form just below his balcony, he steps out and tries to see it for himself. A matte black Honda had crashed into the red hydrant, water everywhere as passing groups of strangers grumbled in pity.

Once the blaring siren of the officials resounded through the road, Jeno walked out his balcony and into his apartment again. The first thing he sees is the sculpture again, making him freeze.

An eerie chill runs down his spine as he stares at it, the figure almost like a ghost's, and he tries to set the feeling aside by eating breakfast. Food and sleep had always been the answer to everything, he assumes. With a sliced bread in between in his teeth, he toes his way through the pigsty that he still calls his apartment for some odd reason. For the first time in a week, he cleans his litter up.

The bin gets filled with crumpled and ripped sheets, pencil shavings, empty tubes of paint and a number of unwrapped snacks. It's almost absurd how he manages to live in this kind of place, but after picking everything up and arranging his belongings in a fairly decent manner, it starts to feel refreshing.

Like pushing a toe in the beach's cool water after a hot summer morning, like licking a fruity popsicle that Mark seems to be so fond of, like hearing the new song from Donghyuck, like seeing a pleasing art work of Renjun, or meeting Chenle and Jisung again after a month of mere calls and messages. It's that type of happiness, one he loves so much.

As Jeno looks around again, vision tunnelling for any stain or trash, his eyes land on the figure that stood unyielding in the middle of his apartment. With how the sun light shines at it, casting an inky shadow against his now cleaned floors, it was impossible to miss it. Even before, when the darkness had embraced the night sky, when he's busy doing the most mundane of things, the statue had never failed to catch his attention, taunting.

Nothing particularly exciting was planned for the rest of his vacation anyway; hence, Jeno finds himself pulling the sheet away from the sculpture.

He locks eyes with its lifeless stone orbs, its smile even prettier than he remembered, and it dawns on him that he can't imagine himself getting tired of this view. As if caught in an enchanting daze, Jeno picks up where he had left off. The day is spent just like yesterday and ends with a nearly complete clay sculpture of Jaemin.

Jaemin. Just thinking of his name made Jeno feel all sorts of things. There's butterflies swarming in his stomach, just like what Jaemin had in his palms, and there's a rush of giddy emotions like the glide of the stream against its slate-gray rocks and shiny pebbles, only this time, it's harsh, unforgiving, its flow more similar to a rapid waterfall than the serene one in his dreams.

But as he steps back to admire his work, he doesn't find himself complaining. There's that timely swell of pride again, beating loud and known in his chest, as he's left awe-struck from his own creation.

Hours were spent on every detail and Jeno plans to spend more tomorrow, concentration solely on refining the details and to recreate perfection. Even if it would take forever, he'll be willing to spend it with restless days and nights to have him here in reality, not only a stranger who frequents his dreams.

When Jeno tries to take another step back, holding his breath, marveling, he hears a knock against his door. His head tilts to the side in confusion, wondering who it could be so late at night. The clock ticks at 11:56 PM, its sounds overpowered by the shuffling of Jeno's feet across his apartment. He holds the knob and creaks it open, peeking an eye out, "Who is it–"

Then, Jeno's eyes widened, opening the door wider, "Jisung?"

"Hi," he said in a small, shy voice, displaying his boyish smile, eyes turning into crescents, "Chenle texted you. Said he needs to borrow some materials for his nephew's project."

Heat spreads across Jeno's cheeks, crawling down his nape and his half-opened shirt. He grips on the knob tighter, "Oh, well, I've been–" trailing off, he diverts his eyes elsewhere, "–busy."

Jisung chuckles at that, stepping into the humble abode of Jeno, only to stop when he sees a sculpture standing in the middle. He freezes. He brings a hand up, as if asking if he was the only one who was seeing it, but he gets a wary smile from Jeno.

"I'll be quick," Jisung says in disbelief after nodding. He cautiously approaches the familiar desk of Jeno, opening a few drawers and grabbing cheap markers that they've used before.

Jisung and his boyfriend may not be art students, no where near that, but they find enjoyment in crafting and such. Then even made them friendship bracelets and a bundle of keychains. So it's safe to assume that they crash here whenever inspiration or boredom strikes, often visiting and using Jeno's materials to their advantage, especially when they're extra lazy to run to the dollar store to buy their own.

Since their vacation began, however, they lost contact with each other. Busy with their families, relationships and such. It was time for themselves after all those cramming and tests.

It was only last week when they messaged in the group chat and said they should eat out some time again. They all agreed, but the chat has been dead since. They're a group of six friends and it had been long since when they were in highschool, mere teenagers who liked to throw caution into the wind. With how things now, college and their own affairs, it was expected that they'd see less of each other. They're all growing (except for Renjun who's now shorter than their youngest) and have their personal lives.

It's the first time Jeno had seen Jisung in more than a week and this is what he greets him with–a strange statue standing in his apartment.

Jisung then opens his backpack, shoving the necessities in as an awkward air wraps around the. There's a thousand queries in his mind but he'd rather not ask. They've been busy after all and he's a supportive friend after all. Even if he finds it quite odd that Jeno had suddenly returned to sculpting, he'll continue to watch him by the sidelines without question.

When Jisung turns to him again, the air's even more suffocating, unbearable, as they stare at each other with a gawky stance. Jeno clears his throat and enters his kitchen, pouring water into a ceramic mug, anticipating the younger's curiosity to help ease the tension.

"I really can't stop myself," Jisung finally breaks the silence, pointing at the statue without breaking their gazes, "What is that?"

Jeno's eyes fleet elsewhere, bringing the mug up to his lips, muttering before taking a sip, "It's something I started, like, yesterday."

"What?! How–" Jisung sputters, eyes blown wide as he gestures vaguely at whatever it was, "–How do you make this in two days?"

Jisung stills again. With his lips parted in awful realisation, he turns to Jeno again, his shoulders slumping in both disappointment and concern, "Have you been skipping your meals again?"

Jisung's scrutinising gaze rakes him up and down, eyeing how thin Jeno looked compared to the times when they were still in university. His white polo shirt hung from his frame like two loose arms wrapped around him, his hair tousled mess, buttons unclasped to show his more prominent collar bone and behind his thin glasses are black heavy bags. Jisung feels his heart wrench at how dreadful he looked.

But all Jeno says is, "Something like that. I'll eat once you leave though."

"No, eat right now or I'm calling Renjun," Jisung warns him. It's not even a tiny bit of intimidating, considering how he looked like an angry hamster with his cheeks puffed and his brows furrowed, but the name is what terrifies him.

Renjun would not hesitate to climb up his apartment and scold him for his unhealthy routine. Although he is an artist too and has been through the same phase, it's also the reason why he's so concerned for Jeno's well-being. For deadlines to be met, he often stayed up late until his eyes were bloodshot and his body was practically screaming at him to get some rest. It was a terrible experience that he doesn't want Jeno to go through as well.

Jeno can hear Renjun's words when he first got an earful for skipping dinner to pass a project on time, "Trust me, coffee won't work anymore and your body would shut down on itself. Experienced it first-hand and it was not pretty."

Hearing Renjun's repetitive words and him rambling about how to live healthily will also not be pretty; trust Jeno because he had experienced it first-hand as well. So he sighs, cracking his fridge open to grab an egg from the top shelf. French toast it is again then.

When Jisung watched him unwillingly turn on his stove, a sense of reassurance dawned on him. He glances back at the sculpture again, taking a long good look on it, only noticing now that it looked more beautiful, almost unreal, upon a closer view. As if being pulled into a spell, he takes a step forward, growing breathless, "Who is he anyway?"

Jeno picks the mug up again, standing back to let the pan sizzle, as he grumbles, "Someone I saw in my dreams."

And before Jisung could even think, his hand had reached out to admire it, fingers grazing against its lengthy and realistic robes, eyes glazed in utter fascination, fond, filled with burning flames, "He's beautiful."

Reality comes in the form of a mug shattering from the fiery and unrestrained grip of Jeno, its pieces falling into the ground like thunder clapping, making its sounds as it pierces through the silence. Jisung's brought back from his bliss and his head whips to him in shock, his hand retracting in reflex.

There's a whisper of a curse under Jeno's breath and quickly, Jisung joins him to pick up the sharp bits and aid his wound. As Jeno stood there, his palm under the faucet and against Jisung's careful, gentle hands, fear strikes into his core. Along with it comes a disgusting emotion he had been keen on avoiding, as green talons claw into his skin, painful and horrid, but it's something he can't control, as it had taken over him whole already–jealousy.

And over such a small, petty thing, too. From a mere compliment of Jisung to the sculpture he himself had made. It's baffling, how possessive he is for someone who doesn't even exist, someone his inner, unconscious mind had made up for him. Jaemin's nothing but the fruit of his imaginations and yet, he had seen green before he could even stop himself. Truly, the emotions that Jaemin ignites in him are too much, but he can't find the heart in him to stop.

Once Jisung had finished cleaning Jeno's wound and cooked his meal for him (he had learned a lot from living with his boyfriend, Chenle), he went on his way. But he had refused to go without leaving a few reminders for him. To cut it short, he had said, "Get your life together" and stormed off. The door closes shut.

Jeno is left with only the sculpture as his company, a million more if you count the night sky's flickering stars. He sighs out. The only time he had ever felt as if he wasn't alone, outside his friend group, was with Jaemin. And the emotions he invokes in him are different too, incomparable with what his friends had ever given him.

The love they had given him had grown over time, nurtured with their growing bond and the times they had proved to each other that they had their backs.

What Jaemin makes him feel, however, it's as if he had planted a seed inside him and grew rapidly in such a short amount of time, its vines and roots climbing and entwining deep into his heart and soul.

There's that stupendous fluttering of butterflies in his stomach whereas his friends could never offer. All they give him are stomach aches from stupid dares and laughing too hard till he's crying, whilst Jaemin had given him comfort, a warm sense of home.

The witching hour had come and went. The sky is darker as 1 AM had struck and Jeno starts to feel his exhaustion kick in.

During his campus days, this is considered early for him and whenever he finishes a project this soon, he hits the hay with a smile on his face and dozes off.

Now, however, his body longs for the fluffy comforts of his bed and his heart tugs at the possibility of seeing Jaemin again. So when he finishes his nightly routine, he lets himself fall and descend into his duvets. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he ascends from green, luscious acres again.

The moment his sole presses into the mellow soil like a bosom embrace, Jeno hears a sweet angelic voice calling to him, "Jeno! Over here!"

He turns to him, mirroring the soft smile on Jaemin's lips, heart melting at the sight of him waving adorably at him. He follows the trails and brings himself to him.

His very presence was warm and bright enough to rival against the sun, his smile as dazzling as it is too and his cheeks raised like clouds, beaming at him. Jaemin, still draped in white, silky robes that had tawny stains of dirt and smelled like a breeze amidst the dewy morning grass, he pats the spot beside him for Jeno. And without even an inch of hesitance does he occupy it.

He sits under the mighty tree's nippy shade, heart thumping in his chest. Jaemin turns to him cheerily, excitement ricochetting through his throat like the whistle of fireworks into a night sky that sparkles into his orbs, "Close your eyes first!"

And just like so, Jeno obliges. His lids flutter shut, taking in the choir of hushed songs from the prairie they rested upon. The woozy buzz of the grass and greenery prey in his ears as he waits for Jaemin. He's graced with his voice soon enough, giddy and mellow that blends with nature's little hums like an ode, "Okay, open them!"

Slowly, Jeno's lashes flutter heavenwards and his eyes feast on the splash of colors he's met. Inside an interwoven basket held a bundle of fruits and flowers.

The red, shiny tints of the apples had first caught his attention, fresh and ripe for him, its gold star from its stem radiated the brightest of hues. They're followed by groups of nectarines and plums, their vivid yellows, orange and a plump violet ranges call out to him like full-blown flowers amidst a pastoral garden of green and rolling fields.

Dripping down their firm and smooth skin were droplets that caught the sky above them, gleaming, a promise of sweetness from within. Jeno feels his mouth water.

"Go on," Jaemin picks an ample apple up, bringing it closer to Jeno with a lovely encouraging smile, "Have a bite."

Although doubtful, Jeno gently lunges forward, his teeth sinking into the fruit that Jaemin held out to him. A soft crunch resonates between them, crisp and sweet, and its taste wastes no time to pour into his mouth like a broken dam, and it's much like the boy that had offered it to him, perfect and pleasant. It claims his mouth like sugary waves, tingling his tastebuds and running down his throat like so.

The smile on Jaemin's face matches the sweet fruit and he retracts his hand, biting into the same spot that Jeno had bitten into already.

Drips of juice spill and splatter, plodding down his plump lips and chin, trailing lower to his forearm and tanned chest. Jeno feels something stir in his stomach, knowing that it's different kind of hunger that it longs for and not even a measly apple could quench it.

Jaemin chews on it rather adorably, his tongue delicately swiping across his wet lower lip in pure obliviousness. With a heady and painful gulp, Jeno's hand reaches out to wipe the amber droplet from his face, running the pad of his thumb in a low, sensual motion.

Jaemin simply watches everything take place. His big doe round eyes stare into the swirls of brown that Jeno owns, quietly wondering why they looked so focused and distant at the same time, flickers of restrained desire evident like flames in a candle's wick. When he pulls away, Jaemin just smiles at him and pushes the basket closer to him, innocently giddy, "Here, you should eat more. I picked these just for you!"

When Jeno reaches out a hand to comply his request, he's caught off guard when he's held worriedly, his gaze shooting upwards to meet Jaemin's concerned ones, "What happened?"

The gauze wrapped around Jeno's hand had stains of a rustic red, the memory of what happened earlier coming back again. He grimaces, "Nothing."

But Jaemin must've seen right through him, acting in all his perfection and kindness once again, and he caresses it softly, his heart aching for him.

"I don't know why but from the moment I saw you, I wanted to hold your hand tight and to never let go," Jaemin bashfully says, his fingertips carefully grazing the gauze, gentle and loving, "So, please, be more careful next time, Jeno."

The words makes Jeno's heart race and pound loudly in its cavern. The thought of Jaemin wanting him to stay by his side, to hold his hand and never let go, to stick around even beyond forever, those alone spark such immense emotions in him.

Things he had never felt before, more formidable than completing an artwork he had been working on for months, or looking at pretty paintings for inspiration, or even having the first wink of sleep after hours of cramming.

No emotion could ever compare to what Jaemin makes him feel and that fact itself makes him ant to hold his hand too, to never break and let go just like he said. A rush of happiness and wamrth spreads in him as he warily closes his palm, intertwining their fingers together. Thewre's a profound sting but he ignores it, grateful for the comforting touch that Jaemin's hand brings forth to him.

Jeno in his slumber was much like the Jeno when awake, both having the tendency to lose track of time.

So when he and Jaemin finish the basket, he's ripped away from him as if it was on perfect cue, his beautiful contented smile the last thing saw before he woke up.

And when his eyes crack open, he jolts slightly and takes a big deep breath, like resurfacing from deep waters. He stares at his ceiling, unblinking, pondering on how realistic his dreams had felt.

The first two nights seemed more like a daze, more like a dream, a fantasy. But the most recent one had hit too close to home. The tastes of the fruits had exploded into his mouth like sickeningly sweet juice but when he brings a hand up to his throat, it's dry with no sugary taste whatsoever.

Surely enough, Jeno's starting to lose the line between his dreams and reality. He shakes his head at that.

With his jaw clenched tight in both frustration and disappointment, he starts his morning routine. In the middle of his preparation for breakfast, he remembers Jisung and the messages that he mentioned.

As he lets the eggs cook, he swiftly looks for his phone and unlocks it. Like said, there were messages from Chenle, asking him if he could borrow his pens and markers for a late night project. And at the very top, the most recent one was from Renjun.

 **Renjun**  
The uni's holding a free drawing class in like 4 days. Come with me.  
sent 5 mins ago

Renjun's a man who doesn't tend to take no for an answer. Also, he likes to threaten people and would not hesitate to act on them. Cue that one horrid memory of him punching Lucas in the face after he had accidentally ruined one of his paintings. All is good now since they've been dating for almost a year, but the scene is still vivid in Jeno's mind that it makes him wince. He types out a reply of agreement and chucks his phone into his bed again, returning to the kitchen.

When Jeno finished breakfast up, took a shower and changed into a loose sweater and jumper, he felt like a new person. His body was full and recharged, ready to take on the day. That is until he sees the statue again.

His cheeks dip into a particular shade of pink, glowing, as he recalls the summery touch of Jaemin's skin against his. He could no longer fight the butterflies that swarm in his stomach, just like in his dreams, even more so the quirky tug of his lips.

He runs his fingers through his hair, feet kicking up and down as he did. He bites his tongue to resist the urge to squeal (manly at that, mind you) and tries to get his grip together like Jisung had advised him to do. In the end, he succeeds and continues on the glorious sculpture of Jaemin.

The angel-like man sat comfortably on top of the hill, similarly like in his dreams and in the first time he had met him, showing his long slender legs that peek beneath his robes, his bare feet accompanied by the grass and flowers that Jeno will be focusing more on today.

He sculpts with such precision, eyes narrowed into concentration behind his thinly framed glasses. Every move of his wrist is crucial, no matter how small or important it may be, and his patience seems to only grow more rather than shrink thin. The wonders that Jaemin does to him are exceedingly out of this world.

By the time afternoon had arrived, Jeno was finished. He takes an early dinner, does his nightly routine and by the time he had stepped out of the bathroom again, it's only 6:30.

An idea suddenly comes into mind. Jaemin's name ring into his thoughts again, somehow it felt like he had never left anyway, and he eyes his undone bed. Will he see him again? The only way he'll find out is if he'd try. So, Jeno timidly walks towards his bed, covering himself with his blanket and half an hour later, he's gone.

"What's it like?" Jaemin asks after greeting Jeno with his familiar pretty smile. They stay seated under the tree again, calmly seated beside each other, the silence blanketing over them like a soft, fluffy sheet, until he asked. He turns to him, "Your life, I mean."

Jeno's taken aback at first, but he musters up a response either way, never being able to deny those round almond eyes of his even if he tried. He looks around, quietly pushing a breath out, "It's not exiting nor pretty like this, but I always strive to find the beauty in everything. It's what I do and it's what I'll continue to do till my last breath."

Jaemin hums as wisps of air blow past his silk robes and rose dawn hair, his gaze wandering through the rows of hills and how the green field stretches across them, "How does one find the beauty in life anyway?"

A heart beat. And then, Jeno finds an answer.

"Life is a form of art and it differs to each one. To some, it's happy, filled with love and passion, like a bright painting with splash of colors, or like an upbeat dance. To some, it's tragic, like a sad song or a dramatic play," Jeno rambles on, brows furrowing slightly, "Still, they're art, and there's always beauty in it. You just have to focus at the right things."

Jeno could hear the smile in Jaemin's face, followed by a chime of his voice, "You seem to know a lot about art."

Chuckling, Jeno's eyes crinkle as hearty laughs spill from his lips, "Told you, it's what I do and it's what I'll continue to do–"

Jaemin quips, "Till your last breath?"

Jeno nods, "Till my last breath."

There's a blearing silence once again, lighted up by the questions that fall from Jeno's lips, sparked by his spirit of inquiry, "How about you then? What's your life like?"

The funny thing about dreams is that most of the time, you're carried away by this fantasy land, the own creation and birth of your subconscious, as it takes you upon frivolous adventures, to the extent that you're carried away from reality.

There is no up or down, no right or wrong, no black or white in such dreams, only you and the whimsical nature that you yourself had created. And when the time is up, you're ripped apart from those hazy imageries, as if like splitting a half from a whole, painful and agonising, but when Jeno sees the sad smile that streaks across Jaemin's otherwise gleaming face, it's even more excruciating.

He wakes up.

The moment he's met with his dull ceiling, a light buzzing in his head and his pupils shaking, his chest heaves to remind him he's alive, breath ripping through his throat like it's clawing its way up, his heart curling into itself.

There's a pang that echoes throughout his very being, fingers numb and limp against his milky sheets, as a lump starts to brew below his tongue like an incoming hurricane.

The remnants of his sleep are blurred out but he remembers even more than bits from what happened prior, the shaky, defeated haul of Jaemin's lips, and the dying light behind his glassy eyes, skittish, as if all the power and freedom had been ripped away from him and the least he could do is to smile through the pain, to hide his true colors with a mask of perfection.

And that is when Jeno realizes that truly, there is no such thing as perfection. Because even Jaemin, the most enthralling person he had ever met in his dreams, was broken, a flaw within him that the naked eye could not see.

Lastly, he's a man who does not exist. Perfection is simply a myth, fictitious, built and sought upon by everyone but is owned by no one.

Perfection is everything and nothing simultaneously. Jeno knows that now more than ever, but the thing about perfection is it's overrated as well, and that there should be nothing wrong with a couple or many flaws, a few or countless cracks and missing pieces, because that's exactly how art is. And like he said, you just have to focus at the right things. At the right angle, though the right lens and views.

Surely enough, you'll fall on something close to perfection, still somewhat flawed but not any less or inferior. Perhaps even better because of what they had been through, the experiences, the joys that it brings and the wonders that they tell.

By the time Jeno had engraved this deep in mind, written and carved in his heart, the stars had came out to play and his bed had lulled him to sleep.

There's no logic or understanding whenever Jeno's in his slumber, no realisation that he's in his own dream where he has no control whatsoever, even outside it, as he's stuck to believe that he lives in paradise with a heavenly man named Jaemin.

He had fallen with the way he laughs, revelling deep from his chest, deep and lovely and everything that love is made of, smile rich with sincerity and silly chuckles, eyes twinkling like supernovas, and even how his shoulders would slightly shake whenever Jeno pulls an embarrassing face or when he's looked at him longer than he intended.

In an attempt to clear his sadness away, Jeno grabs a hold of Jaemin's hand and it feels very much like home. That familiar yet never tiring giggle of his resonates again as soon as Jeno slipped in the stream they were playing in, followed by a loud splash and the shaken chirps of birds fluttering away.

His laugh fills the meadows like a melodic song, always one with nature, one that extends through his heart and soul. Jeno finds himself laughing at his own clumsiness as well. His eyes crinkle like pretty crescents accompanied by tiny stars in those orbs. He flicks his hand up, water pushed off his fingertips and Jaemin lets out a surprised yip, a playful challenging glint igniting in him. Jeno laughs from his belly at how adorable he looked.

When the two resurfaced again, both dripping wet from their childish fight, they lay under the cool shade and breathe in everything; the morning's kiss upon their skin, the gentle hums of every life with them.

Jeno lightly shakes his head, droplets splashing everywhere as Jaemin runs his hand through his own hair, drying himself up. In the middle of the peaceful silence, Jeno had sat back, his hands stretched behind him and his knees lazily bent, a contented smile on.

With a nervous bite on Jaemin's lip, he picks his robes up and his feet softly braces the ticklish feel of the grass, bringing himself closer to Jeno. He sits beside him, inching into him, and he fiddles his fingers above his lap.

There's a tick and click of his nails, the scratch of his skin against his own, the paling of his own knuckles from his own anxiousness. And Jeno doesn't waste another moment as soon as he noticed it. Blinded by a pulse of courage, he reaches out and intertwines their hands together.

It's warm and soothing, their touch almost like the sun over the moon, so special and rich, filled by the beating of their syncing hearts. The weight of something blooming in his chest is there again, like a flower opening in its own fulfilling moment, and its roots stay there, unyielding, strong and passionate.

All good things come to and end, however, when they share a smile to each other and Jeno wakes up.

He's left alone in his cold spacious bed, left to do his morning routine like a repetition, a pattern he had began to grow tired of.

The statue was starting become complete and he had felt as if his life was slowly running out of purpose. There was nothing left for him to do in reality, no crystal stream he could play and chase around in, no breath-taking meadow or tree for him to rest on, to lay his shoulder on and take every beauty and life of what earth offers him in a silver platter, and more importantly, no Jaemin.

No Jaemin for him to depend on, to spend the nightly and ungodly hours with, to trust and love for. His morning and afternoon had started to grow old, no sense left in them along with the mundane things he does, and only when it's night does he really feel alive.

Well, not really at night in particular. Somewhere between 5 and 6 in the afternoon, Jeno's back in his bed again, hopes high to see a specific boy in his slumber.

Time was something that never existed in Jeno's dreams, but Jaemin must've noticed the prolonging times he had spent with him.

After picking out fruits from trees that reside atop low hills and amidst the acres, they bring the basket and situate themselves on their usual spot. The breeze is crisp and warmer this time, friskier, as it blows past Jaemin and Jeno's hair and their clothes. With an apple in hand, Jeno bites it down, growing addicted to it, its pleasant and crunchy taste leaving his teeth and tongue longing for more.

Jaemin turns to him, a lilt of concern in his voice, "Jeno, don't you need to get back soon?"

Jeno continues chewing, glancing at him with an eyebrow quirked up in confusion, "Get back where?"

A fleet of pity and worry glaze Jaemin's eyes, his face pulled into a small frown, his thick brows furrowed just so slightly. The words comes out as whisper, but when it's conveyed, it's loud and clear, "Home."

Home? Jeno freezes at that. He halts his ministrations, diverting his head towards him in disbelief, fingers clutching on the fruit tighter as he takes a burning gulp in. He stares at those eyes adorned with concern, how the sparkles in them stilled from their gracious dance to focus on him. Jeno feels his heartbeat stop inside his own body, brain fumbling and racking to find an answer.

Home is where you feel safe, where you unravel your wings and tuck yourself to sleep at night, where you feel nothing but warmth and comfort, not necessarily consisting with a roof above his head or walls around him, but the embrace of his arms and the hand that tousles his hair mimics that. Home is here. Home is where Jaemin is. Where else on earth could it be?

"You're sticking longer on purpose, aren't you?" Jaemin asks him, gently, like a feather grazing against his skin, but there is no soothing chill that runs down his spine this time, only a number of questions seeping up his scattered thoughts. All his senses start to lose grip on their own, head running fuzzy and aimless. The world he had built starts to crumble on itself,

And then, Jaemin leans closer, his fingers caressing his cheek like how the sun dips into the horizon over a mirroring beach at the golden hour, brushing back the strands of his dark hair that the breath of wind had blew tenderly, whispering, "It's time to wake up, Jeno."

With that, Jaemin kisses Jeno sweetly. It's filled with longing and a little spark of hope, a silent plea for him to stay as he pushes him away, his soft lips against his and it's everything that he had ever imagined, perhaps even more.

He's the epitome of love and sugar in one, a fruity taste lingering in him, as he takes in the scent of dewy and damp grass, aromas of flowers wafting and clouding in his mind, and it's like taking a dip into the garden of eden. He's more addicting than the plump apples and nectarines, more than any addiction he could've ever had, more than painting or any art form he had spent countless hours perfecting, and he can't get enough.

Just as he could lean in for more, Jeno wakes up.

Waking up was no longer a pleasure that it was. Jeno harshly rubs through his drowsy state, ripping himself his back off his bed and he sits himself up, abrupt like a jolt, as he chases after his breath. He clutches his own chest beneath his opened shirt, tight and unforgiving.

Memories of what had happened drift down at him like lightning and thunder, cracking his skull open and his heart races even faster at that. He takes a deep heavy sigh and starts his day. He's even more miserable in each passing second, wondering why the dream had to end so soon.

His own greedy desires makes him blush, but he'd be lying if he didn't enjoy it, if he no longer feels his lips against Jaemin's rosy ones, because he still does. Even when he eats his breakfast, takes a shower, changes into new clothes and continues on his sculpture, Jaemin never leaves his mind. He moves like a mindless puppet under Jaemin's command, dazed and oh so clearly in love.

He isn't real, that was clear, but Jeno couldn't win over the strong tugs on his heartstrings, the flips and summersaults of his stomach and how his mind seemed to have orbited around Jaemin solely. He's his world now, his first love (if you don't count the time that Jeno seemed to have been drawn into Alexandre Cabanel's Fallen Angel painting). Then, it strikes him like a chord that's been violently plucked from its lodgings.

Jeno's too into art. Too much to the point that he had been reaching for the impossible, the perfect, the nonexistent. He could almost hear Renjun and Donghyuck teasing him for having an "art kink." He inwardly cringes. He'd surely never hear the end of that.

Then again, he simply had strong feelings towards art, the beauty of colors complementing or contrasting each other, the splash that it brings into his life, the endless possibilities that you could do with it.

He had been drawn into it ever since he was a childish, eager enough that he drew on walls, sculpted on play-doh, sang in the bathroom and empty halls, danced like nobody was watching and acted in tons of plays.

Art is infinite, no laws or rules could ever bind it down, which must be one of the many reasons why it calls him like a siren.

He knows how to admire and create art, his blood and veins fuelled by a million of inspirations, and it just so happened that his unconscious mind knows how too. He had made up a colorful pasture that seemed to revolve on one god only--Jaemin. He reigns in nature, his true domain, and coincidentally so, in Jeno's heart too.

Who knew that the fruit of his own imaginations could spark a tiny crush in him, only to end up as more? Jeno never saw that coming.

But looking back at the first time he met him, he figures he should've expected that he'd be willing to do anything for him till then.

Now, however, it's his little secret to keep. He had never been attracted to anyone until Jaemin came, so his standards are ridiculously high. He doubts anyone could ever come close to him. So he settles at that, his dream boy; pretty, has a nice laugh and smile, and is literally sent from heaven.

Jeno has small hopes that he'd meet anyone that could reach his standards, that could outmatch Jaemin at that, but he still wants to try and look for them. When the time is right that is. For now, he'll continue to admire Jaemin from afar, the wall between reality and his dreams between them, and be content with how things are.

He steps back again, eyeing the finished sculpture with a proud and contented smile. Warmth spreads from his heart and outwards through his chest again as he stills in amazement.

Jaemin looks and smiles at him with the same glaze of love and admiration, almost like in his dreams, the stone and its details carved with intricacy and under an inane amount of time and effort, his silk robes acting as if they were being blown by the gentle breeze, a pool of flowers and grass around his feet. Jeno's head falls to the side, a soft smile in his lips, feeling something more than love.

When he retires for that night, his excitement is brought down and he's awakened without being graced by the presence of Jaemin in his dreams. That was it then. Jeno barely pushes through his routine and had decided to push the sculpture into a far corner. Jaemin suddenly felt like a limited trial of some sorts, no more glimpse or even a trace of him left for Jeno, and he had vanished into thin air. Perhaps it was for the best too.

The next day, Jeno is greeted by multiple rings from his phone. It echoes and bounces through the four corners of his apartment, ringing and ringing, until he finally had enough. He clicks his tongue in annoyance, blindly looking for his phone under his pillows and picks it up, "Hello?"

"Lee Jeno! Where the fuck are you?!" Renjun's shrill voice booms from the other end of the line, killing the latter's drowsiness away, "You said you'd come with me to the drawing class!"

"Oh, that's today?"

"Yes, you dumbfuck!" Renjun hisses again, suddenly pulling the phone away from him and Jeno hears a string of greetings and apologies from him to the teachers that passed by. It doesn't last long, however, and he's back into that harsh tone of his, whisper-shouting through gritted teeth, "Pick your lazy ass up and get in here! We're starting in twenty minutes!"

The line ends. Jeno sighs. He tosses his phone to the side, palms rubbing over his face in frustration that Jaemin was nowhere in his dreams again. With a heavy heart, he starts his morning and puts on his usual attire: a white polo shirt with two of its buttons unclasped, beige suspenders and trousers, his leather loafers and to top it off, his thinly rounded specs. He pushes it up the bridge of his nose, tilting his chin up and prepares to take on the day.

Paling knuckles hover above his messenger bag's strap, carrying his sketchpad and a few pencils in it, but it's almost as if he's carrying the whole weight of the world over his shoulders. He's out so early in the morning without even a shadow of Jaemin prior.

And it's like someone's gripping onto his heart, unmerciful, as he bleeds red and longing for that warm, familiar touch of him. His head hangs low in disappointment, the flames of hope in his chest now flickering from a cold and harsh breeze of loneliness.

There's no other way to put it. He misses him, so much, but how could someone miss a being who was never theirs to begin with? Someone who was never there form the start. No matter what angle he looked at it, there was no existing way that he could be with him till the end, there's only the promise of heartbreak for him at the last page of their story.

His aching heart does come to a stop, however, when Jeno ascended from the stairs of the university, bumping into another person who catches him by his hand and waist.

There's a surprised yelp from the both of them, hitching in the back of their throats in unison, as their heads whip towards one another all under a blink of an eye.

The whole world stops and watches in awe as they gaze into each others twinkling orbs, Jeno's honey-like irises swirling along with the stranger's dark ones, both taken a back at the pull of their heartstrings–it must be fate.

Jeno regains his balance again, his feet safely on the campus' polished tiles, now on the floor that the drawing class will be hosted in. But despite both his soles on the ground, there's a good chance that he had fallen for this man already, perhaps even a week ago, too. And he continues to fall for him so, completely, utterly in love with him.

"I'm so sorry," the man looked dazed as him, but is quick to mask it with a restrained smile, chuckling low from his chest, breathy and shy, as he scratches the back of his pink hair, "It's my first time here and I got lost like an idiot. Can you help me find the dean's office?"

There's deafening silence that overwhelms them for a second as Jeno tries to collect his last coherent thoughts. They come to him in bits and pieces, rendering him speechless, until he manages to untie the knot of his tongue and he stammers out, "Just three doors down this hall, on your left."

Somehow, Jeno still can't believe his own eyes.

Standing in front of him was Jaemin himself, the same man from his dreams, the same halo-like pink hair, his blushing and dusty cheeks, his long and gentle lashes, his glazed and lovely gaze staring back at him with the same fondness, and it's out of this world experience. To see him in the flesh, not a measly creation of his unconscious desires, but in reality with him, where they could be each other's home is more than a gift. It's a heavenly blessing.

His hands ached to touch and worshipped every part and fibre of him, to finally have him in his grasp and hold him close, just like in his dreams. It's more than just a rush of emotions, but a euphoric bliss, passionate and invigorating, like bursts of stars amidst the night sky.

"Thanks," Jaemin says with a nod, turning to him again, "And the bathroom is–?"

It's like Jeno had ran out of things to say. No words or thoughts inside his head in complete awe-struck. He really feels as if he's floating in air with the mere voice of Jaemin, lovely and all things pleasant, deep enough to send tingles down his spine. He manages to point at the nearest bathroom at least and with that, Jaemin thanks him for the last time and takes his leave.

There was nothing else exchanged and Jeno feels as if his world had just collapsed into smithereens.

As he watches Jaemin's retreating back walk way, his dark jacket and silky pink shirt flowing behind him, a line of shimmering chains across his frame to withhold his leather purse that was adorned with a golden angel, he shrinks back in pure disappointment. His heart curls into itself, but only blooms again at the realisation that he's real, walking amongst us, and there's a sense of reassurance that streaks across him like a shooting star.

With a half contented and half hopeful sigh, Jeno walks towards the opposite direction. He passes by the dean's office, plodding past a few more doors down till he reaches the one that says: 777. Through the small window, tips on his toes and sees Renjun seated across a canvas, face contorted into concentration as he nods along to what the professor in the middle was saying.

Jeno's lips tug into a nervous grimace, slowly pushing the knob open and he grabs the attention of everyone.

"Lee Jeno?" Professor Jung looked astonished, stars of delight evident in his eyes, "Didn't know you were joining us today!"

Jeno gave him an apologising smile, bowing slightly with his hands wrapped on the strap of his bag again. To be fair though, Renjun didn't send him any further details, such as what time it would take place and who will be teaching them, only where it would take place.

Renjun instantly perked up, spewing a detail that he had failed to tell him, "He's taking Lucas' spot, sir."

"Is that so?" Mr. Jung's mouth dropped, nodding. He turns to Jeno again, familiar with him already after first seeing him during one of their art exhibits, and he gestures, "Well, go and take a seat then."

Jeno nods and obliges at that. He makes sure to apologise to the other students with them today, whispering solemnly to them as he takes the chair next to Renjun's who sends him daggers through his eyes. He kicks his ankle and Jeno quietly hisses at that.

"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted–" Mr. Jung chuckled lightly as he glanced at Jeno, no bite in his words or tone, "–a new model will be joining us today. The original one had an emergency and luckily, we found a replacement just in time. He should be arriving any moment now."

Suddenly, Renjun snarks at him, scolding him with a hushed voice, "Where the fuck have you been?"

Face pulling into pain, Jeno keeps rubbing on the spot that Renjun had kicked him. So it is true that shorter people are more violent because their bodies can't contain their anger, also the fact they're closer to hell. Jeno clicks his tongue, "I bumped into someone on the way here."

"Who?" Renjun retorted, ever the curious boy that he is with his brows knitted together, "You don't have any more friends aside from us."

Jeno would've lived an awfully lonely life if it weren't for them and he's forever grateful to them for that, but sometimes, he can't help but want to trade these people into someone else. That loneliness might not be bad as he thought it was. Flustered, he turns away, his finger scratching his temple, "Just someone I know. He doesn't know me though and I'd like it better that way."

The image of Jaemin comes in mind again, making it his domain as always, way back from the start as well. He's even better, more beautiful up close, and his heart still refuses to acknowledge the fact that he's in the same building as him, breathing the same air without the blurry line between dream and reality standing as nuisance to both of them.

Then, it dawns on him.

He couldn't have him in his dreams and surely, the heavens wouldn't let him have him in reality, too. He's breath-taking, an unworldly creation produced by celestial gods and goddesses, carved and shaped into the word of beauty.

And Jeno? He's just him. A broke college student who has nothing to his name, who had weirdly sculpted him like a crazy stalker, someone with an unhealthy obsession with him. How could Jaemin want him in the same way as he wants him?

"You like him?!" Renjun shrieked, catching the attention of everyone else in the room and Jeno quickly covers his mouth with his palm. But the latter swats it away, lowering his voice but his excitement soars through the ceiling, "Holy–! This is a big moment, Jeno! You're attracted to someone who isn't fictional or dead from the Renaissance era or something."

"Shut up! I don't have a chance on him, okay?" Jeno kicks his ankle as payback from earlier too, speaking through his gritting teeth and menacing (read: adorably threatening) tone, "He's way out of my league. That was probably the last time I'll ever see him, too."

Before Renjun could say anything again, Jeno raises a hand up, eyes widening to warn him, "No, drop it, Renjun." Now that he said it aloud, it's truer than ever. There's not a single soul that could help him be with him, or even get him a chance that he'd like him back. He promises this to Renjun, to whoever else was listening, and more importantly, to himself, "I'm keeping my distance away from him and there's nothing you can do about it."

As if on cue, three knocks rip against the door and it opens to reveal the dean. He beams at them, his sincere almond eyes doing the same, showing his gummy smile, "Good morning, everyone! The model has arrived so please him treat him well."

They all nod at him, speaking collectively, "Yes, Mr. Moon."

The door opens wider and steps in Jaemin in a white silky robe, its hems running with glitter and gold, as fluffy as his blushing hair and shiny as his greeting smile.

He bows at them all, raising his gaze to meet Jeno's specifically and his heart skips at that, even more so when he speaks with his usual cheery and mellow voice, "Nice to meet you! I'm Na Jaemin, your model for today. This is my first time doing this so I'll make sure to do my best!"

There's a series of formalities, the introduction and words of Mr. Jung, but everything melts in Jeno's ears. All he could focus on was Jaemin, how he seemed to glow under the lights, seemingly like his sculpture back at home, how the silk cling and embrace his toned frame. His long pretty lashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly against his pink cheeks that mimic stargazer lilies, his hair as fluffy as glowing clouds in a taffy sky before the sun sets in his eyes.

Jeno bites his lower lip. He thinks back to the words he had said, to keep his distance away from him but he finds his restraints starting to shatter, as his own desire starts to unravel the locks and shackles, as he gazes deeper into the window of Jaemin's soul, falling harder for him more than ever.

And when Jaemin suddenly unties his robe, dropping the silk into the ground that pools around his feet, revealing his bare self for everyone to see, Jeno realises that his promise is gonna be more difficult to keep than he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> [ twt ](https://twitter.com/starrynomin)   
>  [ cc ](https://t.co/0MCrJUFs0l?amp=1)


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